


Old times

by FormallyKnownAsFreya



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotions, M/M, Old Age, Sad, Years Later, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 09:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormallyKnownAsFreya/pseuds/FormallyKnownAsFreya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris and Hawke recount their story from the years before while camping out in the wilderness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old times

“Fenris,” Hawke rasped, his voice tired but not lacking in the command it once had. 

“I’m here Hawke,” Fenris replied, his own voice slightly deeper but still the same as when they first met.

“Can you read that story again?” he whispered past his gray beard; it was almost as silver as Fenris’s hair had always been. They nearly matched now. 

“Of course,” Fenris smiled and pulled it from their bag. 

It was tattered from years of travel, running, escaping and hundreds of readings. Water stains from nights when the tent leaked and scorch marks when a spell of Hawke’s sparked past the campfire. Fenris rebound it many times and had to rewrite a few pages ruined by the blood of their foes but they’d read it aloud so many times they knew the words by heart.

Fenris scooted behind Hawke and gently lifted him until he sat up against Fenris’s chest. So that they could both see the pages though Hawke couldn’t read them anymore, his eyes not being what they once were. How many years had it been? They’d been on the run for so long fighting blood mages and corrupted templars that all the years ran together.

Forty years? Fifty? Fenris couldn’t remember. All he could remember was the laughing and smiles along the way. The pained laughter as Fenris treated his wounds. All the bad mage jokes and worse Tevinter jokes. Their smiles after nights naked under the stars with only the sound of hooting owls in the distance. The nights they washed together in the hot springs they discovered on accident and since then visited many times.

“The Tale of the Champion,” he started, with smile. “Written by Varric Tethras and Illustrated by Admiral Isabella.”

“Not from the beginning, Fenris,” Hawke complained. 

“Alright, Hawke, just a minute,” Fenris sighed and flipped the pages. 

He opened to the part he knew Hawke wanted. Past the part where they infiltrated Danarius’ mansion. Past when he first flirted with Fenris making him cough with embarrassment. Past the discovery of their bloodmage companion Merrill and flirtatious pirate Isabella. Until he finally came upon the page.

“The dragon lay slain at the Champion’s feet. Pools of blood from the creature and it’s brood blotted the dirt in every direction. One could not step without slathering their boots in the vile fluids. The champion turned to his companions, concerned for their wellbeing more than his own.”

Hawke smiled at the memory. Varric’s recollection of the event was not the same as his own. Yes he was worried for his friends. But it would not be true to say he was concerned about them all in equal measure. 

Varric was far from the fight, keeping to the edges to avoid close combat; the most he got was some singed chest hair. Which he complained frequently about later. Hawke was not worried for him. 

Aveline was covered in splatter and breathing heavy from all the work full armor was. She was dinged up and in need of armor repair but she wasn’t bleeding at all from the fight. She signaled to Hawke to say she was fine and started collecting the loot with Varric. 

Fenris…

Fenris was knelt down, a blade inside the neck of a juvenile dragon nearly severing it from the body. He tried not to show it but the sword was less of a weapon and more of a crutch. He lacked the strength to even stand at that moment. His arms bore claw marks and his bare feet sported burns from the older dragon’s flames. But his face was composed, showing no fear or weakness.

“Fenris,” Hawke called to him and approached.

  
“I’m alright Hawke,” Fenris responded cooly. “No more damage then I’ve come to expect.”

Hawke offered to heal him but Fenris pushed him away, not wanting magic to have a part in repairing the damage. He did not trust it. Or him truly. He trudged behind the party the whole way back to Kirkwall, pressing on the more open wounds until the bleeding stopped. It had to hurt but he said nothing. He expressed nothing.

The group parted ways but Hawke walked Fenris home and it was well that he did. Fenris collapsed against the door to his borrowed mansion. If it weren’t for Hawke he’d have never made it inside. The Champion carried him in on his shoulder, abandoning his staff in the entryway, and trailing blood all the way to the bedroom. 

He took care of his injuries the old fashioned way with bandages and poultices. When he woke he found Hawke washing the blood off the dilapidated mansion floor, their gazes meeting across the dusty room. And that’s when it truly started. He began caring for the mage. 

“I love that story,” Hawke swallowed as Fenris finished the chapter. “When we first met.”

“We met before that Hawke,” Fenris corrected him as he flipped a page.

“But we didn’t, not really. That was the first time our eyes really met,” Hawke reached up with his wrinkled hand to touch Fenris’s face. The elf rested his cheek into that old hand. 

“It’s getting late Hawke. We should put out the fire and turn in,” Fenris leaned down and kissed the top of his silvered head. How many more times would he get to do this? 

“You get the fire, Fenris. I’m a little tired,” Hawke smiled weakly. 

Fenris held him close before nodding and exiting the tent. He kicked dirt into the fire and looked up at the stars. If it weren’t for Hawke he wouldn’t know the constellations. He wouldn’t know how to read. Or how to love.

He swallowed that sadness and refused to think about life’s harsh inevitabilities. All he could do was enjoy what they had while they had it. So he slipped inside the tent and into the blankets close to the Champion of Kirkwall. Garrett Hawke. His lover now and for eternity.

“Fenris,” Hawke mumbled once they’d snuggled in close.

“Yes, Hawke,” Fenris kissed at his neck and his fingers twirled in his beard.

“Can you read that story again?” he asked with a sigh.

Fenris’s voice cracked, “Of course. The Champion of Kirkwall. Written by Varric Tethras and Illustrated by Admiral Isabella…”

“Not from the beginning, Fenris,” Hawke murmured, quickly falling asleep.

Fenris teared up thinking about how much longer he would be able to cater to Hawke. To his needs. He never wanted the story to end. It must have stalled him too long because Hawke shifted a little and spoke.

“Fenris? Are you alright?”

“Just a minute Hawke,” He breathed trying to compose his stoicism; he didn’t want Hawke to see him distressed. “The dragon lay slain at the Champion’s feet…”

He told the story again for him. And he would keep telling it. He would tell it until the day Hawke died. Until the day he died. He would never allow anyone to not know the story of the Champion and who he really was. 

The Champion who changed the World.

The Mage who changed Kirkwall.

The Man who changed him.


End file.
